


Make up Your Mind

by West_Coast_Moper



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bad jokes with a mix of rad and a dash of sad, Curious and not the least bit furious, Fair warning the jokes are lame, M/M, Patrick's not actually mad, Pete enjoys stealing Patrick's clothes, and lies about doing it, be my guest, silly and fluffy, take it or leave it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 01:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4809881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/West_Coast_Moper/pseuds/West_Coast_Moper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick has unfortunately discovered that Pete has gained a liking and or loving to steal from his wardrobe. Didn't matter what it was, only mattered if it was his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make up Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> The result of me getting bored and thinking about Pete stealing Patrick's sweatshirts. Enjoy I hope <3.

Patrick has unfortunately discovered that Pete has gained a liking and or loving to steal from his wardrobe. Didn't matter what it was, only mattered if it was his.

 

And it all kind of began with Pete simply taking a hoodie, or two, or five--Patrick has a lot of hoodies--well...had, not so much anymore.

 

Which he noticed when Pete sauntered out of the bathroom with an arm stretched above his head while his other hand scratched lightly at his lower belly.

 

Sheathed within  _Patrick's_ sweatshirt, baggy and wrinkling soft red cotton surrounding him as Patrick pondered whether or not said sweatshirt had been washed in the last decade.

 

"Hey," Pete said, shoving his hands into pockets-- _Patrick's pockets._

 

"Um," Patrick replied, staring at Pete with wide eyes, a frown spread across his face. Pete gave him a funny look and then lazily shrugged his right shoulder in response.

 

He then yanked the hood of the sweatshirt over his head before he tugged on the sleeves to snuffle his nose into the cuffs.

 

Meanwhile Patrick's being witnessed to all of this with a blank expression.

 

"Um," Patrick repeated and Pete arched a brow at him. "What's wrong dude?" And all Patrick can do is stare before he lifted a hand to point at Pete, more precisely his chest.

 

"You're wearing  _my_  clothes," he said simply and Pete paused for a moment, mouth dropped open and frozen, like the gears in his brain had stopped grinding.

 

"I'm not gonna beat you up or some shit, just like, um--return it of course, and you should maybe probably wash it--"

 

Pete's eyes widened at that and thus resulted in a wild protest, "No!--no, it's fine, no need to be washed." He assured, and Patrick narrowed his eyes.

 

"Oh really?" Pete nodded and Patrick jabbed his index finger once again. "What's that then?" He said, fingertip aimed directly at a suspicious dark stain.

 

"Nail polish." Pete mumbled, fidgeting with the drawstrings connected to said tattered and battered hoodie which honestly is the center of this bullshit. Although it's not really a big deal, really, Patrick's just curious as to why.

 

He could probably guess though.

 

"You got nail polish on my hoodie?" Patrick asked, more like demanded, not because he's upset about it or even really irritated, but Patrick hasn't seen Pete paint his nails at all lately and his nails seemed to be perfectly clean and clear.

 

Or y'know as clean as they can be when you're Pete Wentz.

 

"No, you got nail polish on your hoodie." Pete answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world, crystal clear, diamonds and all.

 

He gave a mild scoff in mock-offense before he chose flight instead of fight and attempted to skitter back into the bathroom however this is shot down as a massive failure when Patrick seized him by the elbow.

 

"Since when have I--" Pete swiftly shushed him and replied with, "Stop asking questions, I'll give it back later m'dear," and with a smack of Pete's lips pressed against Patrick's cheek the bassist is off to who knows where and Patrick suddenly felt drained.

 

Only Pete can pull this shit and still get away with it.

 

"You're a dick!" Patrick called and it only ensued in the braying laughter that served to piss him off even more.

 

Whatever, it's fine, he'll get his hoodie back, it's all good.

 

Rainbows in the center and suns in the corner.

 

Everything's peachy.

 

But he's missing layers...and it's like negative degrees, well.

 

"Pete you asshole," Patrick muttered, and then a voice shouted in reply, "Make up your mind!"

 

"Fuck off!"

***

"Are those my jeans" Patrick asked pointing at Pete's currently wiggling legs as he tried to tiptoe his way into grasping at a box of Patrick's cereal.

 

"Nope," Pete replied with ease and yelped with the box came crashing down--Almost smacking Pete right in the face.

 

"Did you see that? I almost died," Patrick snorted before whacking Pete on the knee ensuing the other to pout miserably at him.

 

"Those are my jeans," Patrick said. "Stop lying you idiot," Pete blinked at him and then his eyes narrowed, pout still clear and tragic on his face.

 

"M'not lying," Pete said and Patrick rolled his eyes, "I don't remember you wearing baggy jeans, like ever."

 

"Maybe I'm trying something new--"

 

"Those things look rugged, battered and beat up," Patrick listed off as he evaluated the knees--stringy holes and mysterious stains that have an odd resemblance to black ink.

 

"Wait," Patrick murmured hooking an arm around Pete's thigh before Pete could scoop up his breakfast and yanked him closer which caused the poor bassist to flail while he squeaked at the action.

 

"Stop squirming," Patrick ordered, trying to still Pete and all his slippery worm-like movements. "Sometimes I swear you're a worm, seriously I'm trying to read this,"

 

"Read what?" Pete questioned, movements stopping immediately as he ducked down to look and almost banged Patrick's head with his in the process.

 

"If home is where the heart is, then we're all just fucked." Patrick read aloud while Pete watched him with wide eyes, dazed and glassy...beautiful.

 

"My heart's with you Pattycakes, now let me eat my damn cereal," Pete whined, twisting in his grip.

 

"Guess you're fucked then...Stop writing lyrics on my clothes," Patrick told Pete, remembering one of their hotel nights within the cloud of dust that is his brain.

 

And in that night they were only supplied with beer and writing utensils and--well, you can see where that went.

 

"I'm always fucked--you did it too--" "No, no I only wrote on your body," Patrick clarified and shook his head. Pete arched a brow at him. "Yeah I remember, you wrote Patrick Stump on my ass," Pete said, before he gave a horsey laugh at Patrick's flushed expression, cheeks reddened into a crimson shade and filled to the brim with embarrassment.

 

"Even Steven, bitch." Pete snorted, prodding a finger into Patrick's cheek and Patrick just took it with a blank face, but mumbled out a small, "I hate you,"

 

"You love me, whether you want to or not," and Patrick stared at that, still being poked in the face by Pete's bony fingers. "There's a thin line between hate and love y'know," he said and Pete tilted his head in response.

 

"Make up your mind then," Pete whispered before he leaned down and pecked Patrick on the mouth, intended to be a chaste kiss but as he attempted to pull back and break it, Patrick tugged on his thigh, arm still wrapped around it and deepened the kiss.

 

Needless to say the most important meal of the day was disregarded that day--unless you count Patrick's tongue in Pete's mouth to which his jeans are ruined and defeated and so are Pete's, but then again they're both his.

 

And so is Pete.

 

The couch is also damaged but that's beside the point.

 

They might have broke one of the legs in their haste...whatever.

 

They'll just use the pillow fight excuse.

 

They've done it before.

 

...Except it wasn't an excuse that time--okay, those few times.

 

***

Patrick at present is mouthing wetly at Pete's neck while Pete lets out helpless and breathless noises which only encouraged Patrick to suck harder as one of his hands ventured lower down to Pete's crotch.

 

"Patrick..." Pete breathed, nails dug into the skin of the other's shoulders as Patrick nipped and lapped at the hollow of his throat."

 

Stop teasing me you bastard, oh my god," Pete groaned when Patrick's fingertips slid over the heated flesh between his thighs, although hidden beneath briefs and a denim material--not Patrick's jeans this time. However Patrick doesn't really know whether to be delighted or depressed because taking Pete's jeans off will be an even bigger hassle now that they're cutting into the skin of his hips.

 

"Hm...?" Patrick hummed, nuzzling his nose against the line of Pete's jaw. "Touch me," Patrick's lips curled into a grin as he rubbed the inside of Pete's knee with his palm in gentle circles.

 

"N-not what I meant...Dick."

 

"Are you saying you want my dick?--or are you saying I am a dick?" Patrick asked and then switched his gaze from the pretty purple and red in splotchy bruises littering Pete's neck all the way down to the curve of his shoulder to the indentations of his collar bones, Pete's flushed face, different shades of colors but pretty all he same, a tint of pink and red sitting softly within his tanned cheeks.

 

"Why not fuckin' both?" Pete hissed, though his tone was like venom on the back of his tongue, there's no protest when he's silently asked to lift his hips up as Patrick undid his jeans and roughly yanked them down to his thighs and--

 

"Oh my god," Patrick said in awe, eyes locked right upon a pair of his own briefs. "Are you kidding me?--You have to be kidding me."

 

Pete's eyebrows furrowed, bemused "Wha--" He began before his cheeks darkened, blossoming into an even more intense red which Patrick didn't think possible.

 

"Oh."

 

"Seriously," Patrick commented, eyes scanning up and down the familiar pale blue he'd forgotten. "why?"

 

"Um--uh," Pete stuttered and Patrick cocked his head, eyebrows raised and eyes still darkened, thick from arousal and his dilated pupils leaving only a sliver of baby blue irises.

 

"You've been stealing literally every piece of my clothing, and now you've degraded down to my underwear, seriously dude."

 

Pete scoffed and clenched his jaw, grinding the enamel of his teeth against each other somewhat before he blew a stray strand of hair out of his eyes.

 

"Updated and upgraded, fuck you," Pete growled and Patrick let a wide grin develop upon his face.

 

"Just answer dumbass, it's not that hard," Patrick said and then noticed Pete's fingers that have fallen loose from his shoulders and into the soft cushion of the bed clenched deep within the sheets and somewhat blanched from the pressure of his grip.

 

"Hey, hey, calm down, just tell me what's up with you," Pete gave a small sound of discomfort, body squirming deeper into the bed.

 

"I like your clothes," he said, and gave a nonchalant quirk of his shoulders and then aligned them back into a tense posture.

 

"Straight lies," Patrick replied, rolling off of Pete and onto his back.

 

"Wouldn't use the word straight, but..."

 

"I see through your lies like I see through your eyes, windows to the soul--and everybody's an open book...just depends on the reader."

 

"And--or the writer--wait, don't get fucking poetic on me, that's my job."

 

"It's my job as your best friend to put you on the right path Pete, oh my god ever since the weed you just--" Patrick aimed to begin a lengthy and wet sob story about how crack is whack, how Pete should weed the weed out of his life and say no to drugs, but Pete ended up striking him in the face with a pillow and said pillow makes a hard impact with the bridge of his nose.

 

Very precise--very painful too if Patrick's yelp has anything to show for it.

 

"You're so fuckin' rude, wow, here I am just trying to be a good friend and you--"

 

"What a good friend you were with your hands down my pants--"

 

"Are you sure they weren't my pants?"

 

"I'm sure, I don't remember you being into asphyxiation--"

 

"Here we have it folks, the fringe queen has acknowledged the tightness of his own jeans, big news we have here--"

 

"You weren't complaining about said tight jeans when I bent over the other day--"

 

And now instead of sharp moans and the wet sound of tongues against warm flesh they're now replaced with hysterical and breathless laughter.

 

"I never got an answer I'll have you know." Patrick said, breath heavy and hard as Pete nodded trying to catch a hold of his breath also.

 

"You're clothes are nice," He repeated and Patrick rolled his eyes before getting beat once again with the absurd fluffy pillow he's grown an unreasonable hatred for and several pained protests from Patrick later Pete finally gave in and mumbled out softly,

 

"They smell like you and it makes me feel safe, I don't know just secure--it's weird, okay, I just.."

 

"Oh."

 

"Yeah."

 

"...Alright."

 

"...That's it?

 

"Yep."

 

Pete blinked at Patrick for a few moments before he flashed a toothy grin that made Patrick feel as if he needed to shade his eyes.

 

Pete leaned down with an enthusiasm Patrick wasn't quite ready for, he pressed several kisses to Patrick's face, resulting in the younger groaning garishly in distress.

 

"Why--why me?"

 

"Just lucky I guess."

 

"...Maybe."

 

Pete pressed one last kiss to Patrick's forehead and then moved down to whisper into his ear,

 

"Make up your mind."

 

"I did...You wearing my clothes is kinda hot by the way."

 

"Glad we found something we can agree on."

 

"Mad and rad if I do say so myself."

 

"Rad indeed."

 

"...Are these briefs coming off anytime soon? Because...Well,"

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what I'm doing, send help.


End file.
